“I informed the Second of your wishes myself, Great Father.”
Manon’s expression did not change, yet Vulgur felt the god’s intensity build in the room, palpable and irresistible. “The man must bring me the sword himself, my son.”
“I understand.”
“None other may touch it – he must live to reach this tower.”
“Yes, Great Father.”
“Vulgur.”
The enormous lasher cringed at the building pressure. “Yes,” he gasped.
“You are sent south in the spring.”
“Yes, master.”
“You recall that I told you to grant this man small victories?”
Vulgur trembled under the terrible weight of the Presence. “Yes.”
“You may forget this instruction.”
Despite the awful pressure, Vulgur snapped erect and stared. The Great Father seldom, if ever, changed his mind on matters of import. “Father?”
“The man is not to be killed – indeed, you must protect his life at all costs – but you may slay all those around him.”
Vulgur blinked his flat, black eyes. “But then how will he come through my armies to you? Are we to convey him to this tower by force? How is such a thing to be accomplished?”
Manon smiled. “There is much you do not understand of humans, my son. There are those – one, in particular – which, if you slay, will cause the man to run to me in his fury and anguish, whatever armies lie between. You will only need stand aside and let him come. This, you have leave to do, but do not slay the man – the sword must pass from his hand to mine.”
“And the one?”
“Is a woman. He has taken her as his mate and values her greatly.”
Vulgur shook his great horned head. “It is true – I do not understand these humans.” He looked up and met the Great Father’s gaze. “How do I find this woman?”
“You need not trouble yourself on this matter. If you slay all those around the man when opportunity allows, your stroke may find her anon. If not, there are other ways to accomplish her death.” Manon moved, and the pressure eased. “There are things that require my attention. Go now; prepare for the campaigns of the spring. And inform Hargur that I expect my tribute to flow to me without interruption.”
At this last instruction, Vulgur grinned wickedly. “Yes, Father.”
26
The countryside rolled behind and remained relatively gentle in aspect, as Aram and his companions went eastward. Now and again, however, sharp, fairly massive dark tors of rock rose up on their right, between the road and the sea, which grew nearer and nearer, mile by passing mile. To their left, the land lifted gradually toward rougher, higher regions, eventually backstopped by the distant mass of the broken-topped mountain. Studying it, Aram figured that the base of this mountain lay perhaps a hundred miles or more away. Despite its height, he was surprised to see that its top was covered with snow, because it lay so far south of the normal reach of winter. Looking closer, he recognized it; this was the same mountain he and Ka’en had seen when they had gazed into the south from the ridge above Jonwood’s field of leaf.
Further east, the landscape changed again, and the alteration was not subtle. The gentle, flat-topped ridges, dotted with farms, gave way to ever-larger spires of dark rock that increased in size and frequency until they veered away from the sea and became a north-south spine of rocky hills that crossed to their front, with massive trees climbing the steep, concentric slopes, and filling the heavily wooded vales between.
The road, still drawing strength from its ancient engineers, wound back and forth as it clawed its way through these rough hills, cutting through the dark rock as it rounded sharp ridges, arching over deep gorges, and climbing up across steep slopes, often in the deep shade of thick woods. Then Florm, who once again was in the lead bearing Muray, rounded another curve in the road and abruptly slid to a stop, his hooves showering sparks along the stones of the roadbed. Thaniel swerved to miss his father and splayed his hooves also, and the whole group came to a bunched halt on the road, gazing to their front in astonishment.
Muray, nearly dislodged by Florm’s abrupt action, righted himself and gazed around at them in confusion. “What is it?”
Aram stared straight along the road, intent on that which had prompted Florm’s precipitous stop. A half-mile directly ahead, the road went into the slope, into the bulk of the mountainside itself, disappearing into a dark maw of rock – a tunnel, like that in Ferros’ mountains north of Vallenvale when he and Florm and Thaniel had become unwelcome guests of the god of the underearth.
Muray discerned the object of Aram’s attention and grinned. “It’s called the ‘Hole in the Hill’. It’s nothing to cause concern – it’s only a hundred yards or so long, and it only seems dark until you get into it. There’re holes in the ceiling that let in light. I’ve been through it a dozen times.”
Aram nodded, and nudged Thaniel forward. “It’s just that some of us here have had experience with a tunnel like this, and that experience was unpleasant enough to make us wary.”
Led by Thaniel and Aram, the column moved forward and entered the dark maw. It was as Muray said; once inside, though still dim, the gloom was somewhat dispelled by angled shafts of light that came down from the unseen heights of the rock. It reminded Aram of the engineering feats he’d witnessed inside the pyramid at Rigar Pyrannis.
After several hundred feet, the road left the dimness of the mountain’s interior and came once more out into the bright sunshine. Just below the exit from the tunnel, the road rounded a curve and there was a wide spot extending toward the edge of the mountainside, bounded by a wall of rock. Aram spoke to Thaniel and the horse halted in this wide spot, next to the wall, and Aram gazed into the east.
The land of Lamont was laid out before them. Broad, rumpled, and green with scattered copses of trees and occasional, unruly lumps of brown hills, it spread away to the distant east until running rather abruptly up against darker, wilder regions. This eastern land consisted of broken country punctuated by mountainous spires of rough stone jutting up here and there in what appeared to be a nearly barren land. Where this wilder region ran up against the lushness of Lamont, the green of trees and grass failed as if swallowed by that dark, hungry ocean of lifeless hills and rock.
To the right was the actual ocean, broad, endless, deeply blue, its wave crests sparkling in the sun. Wide and vast, and in constant motion, it seemed to push upon the land as if the earth itself could be moved before the relentless power of its rolling breakers. To the left, on the north, Lamont spread up against the feet of the massive, broken-topped mountain, perhaps a hundred miles or so distant. This enormous mountain was actually the largest by far of a long range of mountains that defined the northern limits of Lamont, and ran eastward into the darker wild lands, where, far away, higher, even more massive mountains piled up into the north and east.
Aram drew in a sharp breath as he realized that these mountains, most likely, were the southernmost reaches of that range that he’d looked upon from high on Kelven’s mountain. Beyond them, then, just to the north, were the Inland Sea and the high plains of the horses. Abruptly, more of the true nature of the cartography of the world settled into its proper place inside his head.
Below and to the right, spreading out from the sharp crescent of a deep and well-protected harbor, there was a town, rather, a city. Docks crowded the waterfront; two ships lay at rest in the harbor. Large buildings were clustered along the streets to the north and northwest of the quayside, some of these appeared to possess several stories. Roads ran away from this city in several directions. As Aram’s gaze traveled along the tangents of those distant roads, his eyes resolved other towns and villages, most rather small, but some quite substantial, though none seemed to rival the size of the harbor town below.
None, that was, until his eye traveled all the way northward across the panorama of the land to the base of the great mountain at the north. There, da
rkening the tops of several foothills at the mountain’s base lay the densely packed indications of human habitation, as if a great shadow crowded at the mountain’s feet. This distant, dark city was substantially larger, it appeared – though it was difficult to tell at this distance – than the city below.
Out on the rumpled lowlands, a bit to the left of their position, two roads came together in a junction. The east-west road, no doubt that very road upon which they stood and gazed down upon Lamont, ran eastward from this junction and was eventually swallowed up in the dark lands beyond. The other ran north from the harbor city and apparently ended in the city clumped at the base of the high mountain.
Muray looked over at Aram from his vantage on Florm’s back and grinned. “Eastern Lamont,” he said. “Not quite as impressive, in my opinion, as Western Lamont, but a sight nonetheless, eh?”
“Indeed,” agreed Aram, and he turned to find Ka’en, sitting on Huram just behind him. “What do you think?”
Her eyes were bright and she was gazing southeastward, at the broad, blue expanse of the ocean. “Beautiful,” she said softly. “I am so glad that I came. You promised me adventure, my love, and a view of the wide world. I hold that promise as kept.”
“Oh, no, “Aram disagreed, and he turned and gazed across the distant dark lands to the east, where, far away, the rocky hills tumbled up into high, rough regions of wild stone. “There is much more.”
He looked back at Muray. “Does the Hay reside in the city that I see below us, next to the sea?”
Muray shook his head. “That’s Sunderland.” He looked left, toward the north and pointed. “Condon, the capitol, is there, at the base of that mountain. And the silver and copper mines are there as well.”
Aram nodded and glanced up at the sun, just now crossing the meridian. “I doubt we’ll make that city today.”
“No,” Muray agreed. “The road down the side of these hills winds much and is as slow going down as it was coming up the other side. My uncle dwells in Sunderland and possesses a large house. We can stay with him tonight and go north in the morning.”
Aram glanced at Ka’en, who was still looking down and out over the ocean. “Perhaps you will dip your toes in the sea tonight,” he said with a smile. Then he looked down at Durlrang. “A land so full of people is perhaps not the best place for you and the others. I regret to keep asking such things of you, but the land below seems well-populated, with little wild woods or open country.”
Durlrang chuckled, a deep rumbling sound. “When the road leaves these wild hills, my lord, we will turn aside. But we will attempt to stay within call, if you should need our strength.”
“Thanks, old friend.”
The road wound down from the hills, making little more than one mile’s forward progress for every two miles traveled and they were in shadow by the time they reached the lowlands and headed east toward the junction. Here, they turned south, and as the western hills fell away toward the sea, came once again out of shadow into the influence of the declining sun. As they rumbled past scattered villages and small towns, the citizenry turned out in wonder and no small measure of fear to watch this procession of men on great, handsome beasts clattering through on its way south.
At last, as the sun settled beyond the hills once again, they came into the outskirts of Sunderland. There was no wall or gate, but Muray motioned the column to a halt where two squat, square, official-looking structures crowded the avenue on either side. Three men in long dark robes, accompanied by guards bearing swords and shields, emerged and gazed wide-eyed, and in one or two cases, open-mouthed, at the bizarre, never-before-seen sight presented by men on horseback.
Muray swung to the ground, and came around to stand by Thaniel. He looked up at Aram, extending his open hand. “May I present the warders with the letter my ken gave you, Lord Aram?”
Aram produced the letter and handed it down to Muray, and then he dismounted as well, motioning for the others to stay put. He waited while Muray went forward and spoke with the men in robes, showing them Eoarl’s inscription. One of the warders, a tall, thin man with very white hair, looked over the letter, and then looked at Aram. The warder examined them from a distance, though he seemed more interested in the presence of the horses than in Aram or his companions; then he studied Ka’en, and then once again lowered his gaze to Florm and the other horses. After a very long moment, he nodded. Muray turned and motioned Aram forward.
As Aram approached, he, in turn, examined the warders and their soldiers. The warders were all older, though the tall, white-haired man appeared to be the eldest by far. He focused his attention on this man as he came up. The warder’s demeanor was serious and the expression in his pale blue eyes was frankly curious as he watched Aram approach.
When Aram stopped a few feet away and inclined his head respectfully, the older warder responded in kind. “You are the Prince of Wallensia?”
“Yes,” Aram responded, and he frowned slightly. “Is my land known to you, sir?”
The warder’s ghostly white eyebrows lifted slightly. “But of course. Wallensia is an ancient land, as ancient, nearly, as is Lamont. But we have not had intercourse with the people of the western plains in many generations.” It was his turn to frown now. He tapped Eoarl’s letter with his forefinger. “This missive is genuine, and I claim friendship with its author, so I do not doubt that which it says of you and your companions, but – well, we have been under the impression that the western lands above Duridia were under the heel of the grim lord of the north for some time now.”
Aram nodded. “This was true, but we have pushed back against our enemy in recent years, and have succeeded in establishing a defensible frontier upon the banks of Broad River. The plains to the east of that stream are free.”
The ghostly eyebrows ascended further. “Indeed. If this be true, then his forces are perhaps not invincible, as has been suggested?”
“They are not – and he is not.” Aram barely prevented this statement in coming out as a growl. “We have defeated his armies three times now, though not without loss. In the coming spring, we intend to push forward again.”
The tall, thin warder stood very still, watching Aram with his pale eyes. Then, in one fluid movement, still meeting Aram’s gaze, he folded the letter, and held it out. “And why have you come into Lamont?”
Aram reached out and retrieved the proffered letter, tucking it away inside his shirt. “I need to trade for silver and copper coin – “He hesitated, watching the aristocratic warder – “I hoped to find friendship as well.”
The man looked beyond him at the horses, his gaze resting upon them for a moment, and his eyes gleamed; then he refocused on Aram, and smiled. “My name is Willar, sir; I am the chief warder of Moncwere Fief, of Southern Lamont. The port city of Sunderland and the surrounding regions are placed under my jurisdiction.” He nodded toward the unseen letter in Aram’s pocket. “I consider Commissioner Thissel to be a dear friend. If he has granted you his friendship, then you have mine as well. But I do not speak for the court, Lord Aram. For matters concerning precious metals, and the possibility of a larger friendship between your principality and Greater Lamont, you must consult with the Hay – or with the Dame Regent. That letter will convey you into their presence.”
He looked beyond Aram at the horses again, and as he did so, moisture seeped into the corners of his eyes. “I had never hoped to look upon a horse in the course of my life. You would have my undying friendship for bringing this marvel into my view alone, my lord.” He glanced at Aram and leaned forward and spoke low. “Tell me, sir – do they speak?”
Aram shot a look at Muray, who shrugged. “I said nothing of the matter.”
Aram looked at Willar curiously. “Forgive me, sir, but why would you ask such a thing?”
Willar gazed at the horses wistfully. “I am a student of the ancient times, my lord. It is often stated as fact that the great king Joktan spoke with Armon, the horse that bore him into battle. It is said
that they conversed as friends.”
Aram smiled. “Then allow me to present an even greater gift.” He looked at Florm, standing next to Thaniel. Aram had not closed his mind, and the old horse had witnessed the entire exchange. As Florm came forward, Aram swept out his hand. “Lord Florm, son of Armon – the lord of all horses.”
Without hesitation, Florm moved close to the old warder, his hooves ringing upon the smooth stone, and lowered his head to look into Willar’s eyes. “You are well met, sir. I have walked the earth for a long time, and I knew the king, though briefly. Armon was my father. Do you hear my voice?”
Tears sprang into the old warder’s eyes, welled over, and ran down his gaunt cheeks. His hand trembled as he held it out to Florm. “The Maker be blessed,” he said. “I never thought – “Overcome with emotion, he could not continue.
Florm moved closer, until the old man’s trembling hand lay alongside the line of his jaw. “For centuries,” the horse said, “communion between our peoples was broken, and lost. Long our people thought themselves alone, standing without aid against the siege of evil. This man, Aram, came into the world at a time when our need was great. He became our first friend after an age of the world had passed; he then became the master of wolves, and the lord of men – indeed this man is the answer to Kelven’s Riddle.”
Despite the overwhelming wonder of hearing the ancient horse’s voice inside his mind, Willar frowned at this statement. He shook his head slightly. “Kelven’s Riddle? I have not heard of this thing. Kelven left the earth long ago – I did not know that he left behind him a riddle.”
“And yet he did,” Florm answered. “And soon the whole world will hear of it, and of this man standing here that answers the riddle of a god line by line.”
Willar’s eyes widened and he turned to gaze at Aram. “It seems that we are in the presence of something more than a mere prince of the plains.” Oddly, there was no doubt or sarcasm in his words; evidently the wonder of communing with a mythical creature of legend had swayed him utterly.
Kelven's Riddle Book Three Page 27